


One Year

by wintercreek



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen, Holidays, Paganism, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercreek/pseuds/wintercreek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin finds ways to keep the Wheel of the Year, even in Uther Pendragon's Camelot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Year

**Author's Note:**

> So much gratitude to Kate, who originally signed on to do a quick cultural beta and ultimately wound up doing her usual thorough and invaluable beta job while putting up with me being AWOL for days. Thanks, dear.

_Imbolc_

There isn't ever enough to eat, in Ealdor. It's been a hard year for everyone, especially for Merlin and his mum. Merlin's always tried to be discreet about his powers, but there are a few in the village who mutter under their breath and make signs of warding when he's about. It hurts. He does have Will, though, and his mum of course; he's always been able to make that enough before. Now the hand signs and sidelong looks are coming from more people than ever, and no one seems to have anything to share when his mum asks. Merlin sees the communal soup pots bubbling in the neighboring houses, several families eating together for the variety as well as the warmth. It makes the winter feel colder in their house.

Merlin's mum looks bruised around the eyes all the time. Merlin wants to be a good son, tries to take less of the watery gruel and thin soups they eat. But his mum sees, and she shakes her head and reminds Merlin that he's still growing. They sleep back to back on her pallet, sharing body heat. Sometimes Will brings a turnip, or an onion, and they make a sad shadow of the soup that others make. The three of them make an arc around the smoky fire, not a circle. Merlin tries to be grateful anyway.

Then one day a letter comes. Merlin has no idea who his mum would be writing, or who would write back. Hardly anyone in Ealdor can read and write the way she can, the way she's taught Merlin to. It must be different, somewhere, but where? And who would they know there?

"Merlin!" his mum cries. "He said yes." She's beaming, so Merlin smiles too.

"Who said yes?" he asks, eagerly.

She hands him the letter. "Gaius. You remember, he's Court Physician at Camelot. He wants you for an apprentice. This could be your way to a better life than we have here. You could be a healer somewhere, or even serve Camelot's king as Gaius does." She hugs him. "Oh, how wonderful. You'll go when the snows have melted."

Merlin frowns at her. "And leave you?"

"Yes, my boy. All children must leave someday," she chides gently, stroking his cheek. "I'll be fine. And you — you were meant for more than this, I know it."

Merlin swallows his protests and does not say that other children leave their mothers for the next hut over, or maybe the next village, does not say that the next kingdom over is unimaginably distant. He knows his mum wants the best for him, and that she'll find more welcome from the others in Ealdor when her strange son is gone. He tries to believe that this will be better, for both of them.

That night they say the blessings and light the precious beeswax candles for Imbolc, for the days growing imperceptibly longer and the promise, still intangible, of good things to come. Merlin falls asleep feeling cautiously hopeful.

  


 _Ostara_

Merlin startles a hare as he picks his way through the unfamiliar woods, looking for the wild plants Gaius wants. As she darts away into the underbrush, he thinks wistfully of home. Probably the first eggs of the year are turning up now, adding variety and richness to everyone's meals. The snowdrops are coming up around Camelot; they might be up soon near Ealdor, too. He wonders if Caradoc and Gwyned are still planning to be handfasted at Ostara. It isn't until he comes in that evening and hears Gaius making plans for the equinox that Merlin realises.

It's only been a few weeks since he left Ealdor, and perhaps a week that he's been in Camelot. It can't possibly be Ostara already, and yet it is. Merlin knows it's too soon to have a community here, and he's glad of Gaius who has accepted him wholly from the first day. Still. He wants to feel the promise of spring unfolding, planting new crops and comparing animal sightings. Instead, it still feels like winter.

He spends the next day digging in a corner of Gaius's garden, wishing for the warm companionship of a work party and some flower seeds to plant, not because they cure fever or pain but just because. Gaius does have metal tools for working the earth, a luxury they never had in Ealdor, and Merlin tries to concentrate on that as a sign of better things. He's feeling behind him for the mattock, sniffling and wishing his hands were clean enough to wipe his nose, when he touches something warm instead of cold metal, Gwen's hand already closing over the mattock.

"Here," Gwen says, picking up the mattock and raking the dirt back over the seeds Merlin's planted. With her other hand she passes him a handkerchief. It's got flowers embroidered in the corner, blue and yellow and green, and when Merlin tries to give it back to her she tells him to keep it.

She's digging a new row. When he's got himself together, Gwen shows Merlin a handful of delicate seeds. "Cornflower," she tells him. "For tea, but also for a splash of color and prettiness, you know?"

Merlin nods. "Perfect."

They stay there together, hands and knees in the good, rich soil, and Merlin swears he can feel the earth tip gently into light. It's still dark half the time, but that's changing every day.

  


 _Beltane_

Fire means something different in Camelot than it ever did in Ealdor. It's been long months since Merlin looked at a pile of wood in the square and thought of anything but death, and he can't imagine that Uther Pendragon's kingdom keeps the old ways on this night. He puts it out of his mind and thinks instead of the book waiting for him under a loose floorboard. Gaius accuses him of moping and tells him to grind herbs for a poultice after dinner; when Gwen and Morgana, of all people, come giggling through the door he drops his pestle in a second.

Morgana has ribbons twisted into her hair. A brilliant purple strand falls forward over her left ear, and a band of vivid red crosses her forehead. The bright ribbons are her only concession to her status. She and Gwen are both dressed simply, pale shifts under bodices patterned in the pastels of spring. If Merlin didn't know better, he'd guess them to be any two commoners, dressed in their best for the festival.

Gwen has mayflowers nestled in her curls, and she presses a tiny bouquet into Merlin's hands. He sniffs them, a smile breaking out on his face, and tucks them into his kerchief. Then Gwen takes one hand, and Morgana the other, and they pull him out into the dusk.

"Come on, Merlin!" Gwen tries to whisper, but in her exuberance it comes out too loud. She's laughing — they all are — intoxicated by the feeling of sneaking off for something marvelous. "The lower town doesn't dare, of course, but the village a mile out has a festival big enough for all. We can take Morgana's horses."

"Hang on," Merlin says. "How many horses does Morgana have?"

Morgana replies, archly, "Enough, though not so many that you shouldn't be grateful we're taking you with us."

Merlin's silent, wondering how to take that. He must be quiet for too long, because Morgana squeezes his hand and adds, "Oh Merlin, I'm only joking. We'd never leave you here while we went off to have fun. And this way we can truthfully say we took a man with us, for protection." If it weren't dark, Merlin's sure he'd see her grinning, wicked with sarcasm.

The square in Weston boasts a roaring bonfire, and the tables round the edges are nearly groaning under their weights of food and wine. There's a man bringing out a platter when they arrive. Morgana slips over to him for a quiet word.

Merlin joins them in time to see her press more money than she ought in his hand. The man's eyes widen, and Merlin puts a hand on Morgana's shoulder and says, "My sister has a generous heart. Please, let us thank you for hosting us on this night."

The man relaxes and points them both toward the best casks of wine. Somehow Merlin winds up carrying all three cups as they weave through the thickening crowd and back to Gwen. The wine is good: it's smooth on Merlin's tongue, and it tastes of summers past. They drink their first cups as they take in the festivities. With their second cups, fetched by Gwen, Morgana toasts, "To friends," and Gwen and Merlin echo back.

Later, when the flames have settled low and the fire jumping begins, Merlin grins at the sight of Gwen and Morgana rushing hand in hand to join the line. They leap the fire together, graceful as deer. Merlin stands as they make their way back to him and passes off his wine. "I'll be right back," he says.

Merlin's never jumped the fire with a partner, never found someone to bind his coming year with, but he's gone alone before and will again. Now he leaps to burn away the loneliness and the uncertainty, wanting to seal himself to the promise that Camelot will be home and happiness, not just danger and destiny. He runs toward the flames with determination on his face, and when he lands he's laughing.

He laughs harder still, delighted, when Gwen takes one of his hands and Morgana the other and they circle round to jump together, all three of them.

  


 _Litha_

To Merlin's great surprise, Camelot holds a Midsummer festival. He comes dashing into Arthur's rooms to dress him for dinner and finds Arthur not tapping his foot but gazing out the window.

"Merlin," he says, looking pleased. Then he takes in Merlin's clothes. " _That's_ what you're wearing?"

"It's all I've got!" Merlin protests, not knowing why.

Arthur sighs. "You can't dress like that for Midsummer. You need something festive."

Merlin looks askance at Arthur. "I'm not wearing the hat."

"No, of course you're not," Arthur says, and laughs. "Here, there must be something of mine you can wear."

Arthur's resplendent in red, as he often is, and he finds a tunic of vivid blue for Merlin. The sleeves are too short. Arthur rolls them up and says, "There. It's a warm night. And perhaps a vest?" He turns back to his wardrobe. Merlin stands by, bemused.

They finally make their way down to the square, dressed like a matched set: Arthur with his red tunic and blue, brass-studded coat, Merlin in blue with a vest of crimson he didn't even know Arthur owned. The castle kitchens have laid out a feast that would be overwhelming if it weren't Midsummer, ten times the food Weston had managed on Beltane. Everywhere the ladies of the court and the women of the lower town exchange flowers, adding variety to their bouquets.

Merlin fetches wine for himself and Arthur, looking for Gwen and Morgana all the while. Finally he sees them, Gwen bearing a tray of honeycakes and Morgana carrying blossoms for both of them. Merlin slides through the crowd to them and lightens Gwen's tray by two cakes before she sets it down. She's laughing as she scolds him.

"Hush, Gwen," Morgana scolds. "Hold still." She's made a chain of flowers and is draping it around Gwen's head as a crown. Gwen in turn tucks a twist of cornflowers under the collar of Merlin's vest, winking.

"This is a nice outfit you're wearing, Merlin," Gwen says.

"It's my doing." Arthur strides up and takes one of Merlin's honeycakes without asking. "Couldn't let him come to Midsummer in his usual rags, now could I?"

Merlin smiles, fond. "No, that would have been a disaster." Just then the music starts and Merlin finds himself gulping wine and wolfing his honeycake, the better to let Gwen and then Morgana draw him into the whirling dance. Each time he catches Arthur's eye, Arthur's smiling. Merlin can't help but grin back.

  


 _Lammas_

If Merlin didn't know Gaius would scold him for believing something so foolish, he would swear that the sun hangs lower and burns hotter on Lammas. He's sprawled on the floor of Arthur's room, trying to find some cool in the stones. When the door opens Merlin tenses to stand. He relaxes when he sees Arthur's boots.

"Merlin?" Arthur calls.

"Here," he answers, waving a hand in the air before he remembers that even that is obscured by the bed.

Arthur's face appears over the edge of the bed shortly enough, and he huffs affectionately. "I might have known you'd be lazing about somewhere. Merlin, you do understand that this thing, here, is a bed? You know, for lying upon?"

"It's cooler on the ground," Merlin says.

Arthur offers him a hand and pulls him to standing. "That's too bad, because you're not going to stay there. I'm going to ride out and inspect the wheat harvest."

Merlin raises his eyebrows. "And that means I can't stay on the floor because?"

"Because you're coming with me, you useless excuse for a manservant. Someone has to carry the waterskins, you know." Arthur turns away, muttering to himself as he exchanges his leather practice armor for a linen tunic and clean trousers. He belts his sword and dagger back on, always prepared for trouble, and looks back at Merlin.

Merlin, for his part, has brushed most of the debris from the floor off his shirt. He really must sweep more often. "Ready," he says.

They talk over their days as they ride out, mixing all the details of overseeing a kingdom and the gossip of the castle servants, King Uther's plans for fall and Gaius's ambitious laying-up of dried herbs for winter. It's been a good spring and better summer this year.

When they crest the low hill between Camelot and the fields, a sea of gold comes into view. It takes Merlin's breath away, as it always does. The wheat here could feed Ealdor for years. "Do you ever think about how much– how amazing..." Merlin trails off, lost for words.

"It's only what we need, Merlin," Arthur says. "Camelot has many people to provide for. Not to mention the cattle, the horses, the chickens — you remember what a disaster it was, after the unicorn." He pauses, shifting uncomfortably. "We'll need it."

They stand, looking at the heavy heads of grain waving in the breeze. Merlin can't help thinking how easily they can lose this, whether through magic or simple misfortune: drought, hail, insects. He realises that it's Lammas, or close enough to it, and sends a silent word of thanks to the earth mother for giving them this harvest and all it will support, for this kingdom with its flaws and wonders. Beside him, Arthur catches the solemn mood and bows his head slightly, and Merlin adds a thanks for this man beside him.

When he looks back, Arthur's eyes are crinkled and his mouth is quirked in a tiny grin. "Race you to the next field?"

Laughing, Merlin kicks his horse and they're off in a pounding of hooves, Arthur yelling as he catches up.

  


 _Mabon_

Once Merlin had been amazed that Gwen could weave, but now he knows better. He can't count the things he's learned to do since leaving Ealdor, the things that Camelot makes possible with its abundance. Now he thinks that it's only normal Morgana should have a loom, and natural that Gwen should have learned to use it. Skeins of spun wool lie waiting at hand, the rich colors of royalty: reds, golds, purples, blues.

Merlin stands at Gwen's left sometimes, keeping the different colors untangled and picking out any knots in the skeins. As she works the shuttle she talks to him, sharing the small doings of the day or asking after his mother. Morgana reclines on the low couch by the window, reading until the light fails.

This evening, Arthur has joined them. He looked awkward, framed in the doorway and waiting for a break in their laughter, waiting to be noticed, and Merlin hadn't thought anything of rising to meet him and draw him in by the hand. It's Mabon, after all, and though Merlin can't sneak off for a ritual tonight or attend a feast, he can have his own small in-gathering. Now Arthur's standing by Merlin, turning a fine skein of red over in his hands.

"Oh, here," Merlin says fondly. He grabs Arthur's shoulders, manhandling him around to Gwen's right, and shows him how to wind a bobbin with the next color she'll need. "Like that. Think you can bear to be useful rather than decorative for a bit?"

"I'm always useful," Arthur declares, "as well as decorative."

Merlin snorts and goes back to Gwen's left. The fine yarn slips through his fingers, hardly any twists or knots in this batch. "Morgana, where do you get this yarn?" he asks.

"From the north," she says, and there's a pause before she adds, "from the people on what was my family's estate. It's fine work, and I'm sure they'd find a market for it, but–" She stops.

"But you want to care for them in whatever way is left to you," Arthur finishes.

Morgana stands and goes to light the candles. "Yes," she says softly. When the room is filled with flickering light, she stands behind Gwen and gathers her hair in absent fingers. Gwen tilts her head back, briefly, to smile up at Morgana. Because Gwen's curls don't allow for much braiding, Morgana only runs her fingers through the tumble and fall of her thick hair. "One does what one can, for one's people."

Arthur looks at Merlin for long moments before turning to Morgana. "Yes. I know just what you mean."

  


 _Samhain_

King Uther is hosting several of his barons, so it's not until late that Merlin can slip away for Samhain. He knows he's on dangerous ground. The king has been on edge since Tauren's attack, hyper-alert for signs of the old religions in Camelot. Still, they have lost Merlin's friend and Gwen's father this year, and for them they will keep the custom in some way.

Merlin slips into the castle chapel, built for the Roman religion. Gwen thinks this will make them above suspicion. She's kneeling near the front, one candle burning before her and three unlit at her side. They're tallow candles, nicer than rushdips but not so nice as to be missed. Merlin thinks wistfully of the beeswax pillars they'd have at home, kept special for this, and closes his eyes. Then he goes to kneel beside Gwen.

"Three candles?" he whispers.

She nods. "One for Will, of course, but then I thought we could light one for Morgana's father. And one for Arthur's mother? If you think it's all right, I mean. I lit the one for my dad already." Gwen bites her lip, and Merlin can see now that her cheeks are streaked with tear tracks.

He takes one of her hands and squeezes. "I think that's a great idea. Is Morgana joining us?"

"If she can. She knows I have a candle for Gorlois — that's her father." Gwen passes Merlin a candle. "Here."

Merlin carefully carves Will's name into the side and lights it, and does the same to another for Ygraine. He and Gwen sit with their own thoughts, remembering, and Gwen lights their fourth candle for Gorlois when it's clear Morgana won't be coming.

The hour grows late and they gather themselves, knowing Arthur and Morgana will need attending. Gwen lifts Gorlois's candle and murmurs, "Be at peace," as she snuffs it with her fingers. She turns to Merlin.

He leans toward Ygraine's candle, fingers outstretched. "Thank you for your son," he says, awkward but sincere. "Rest, knowing I'm looking after him." He reaches for Will's candle as Gwen reaches for her dad's, both of them whispering, "I miss you." Merlin slips his free hand around Gwen's shoulders and pulls her close. He says, "Go well, wherever you are, mate," and puts out the flame.

What Gwen says to her father is too soft for Merlin to hear, although he catches her final, "I love you, Dad," as the candle goes out. They wrap the candles in the soft, dark cloth Gwen's brought, tucked away safe for next year and hurry up the stairs. Gwen will find them a safe place in Morgana's chambers. Morgana's waiting in her doorway and as Gwen goes in Merlin could swear she winks at him.

In Arthur's rooms, he finds a flask of apple cider on the table. "What's this?" Merlin asks.

"Morgana's idea." Arthur rolls his eyes. "She wouldn't say why, just that she thought we ought to share some this evening. If I ever come to understand that woman, I expect a prize of some sort."

Merlin lets Arthur's grousing become a comfortable background noise as he pours the cider, thoughts full of apples and remembrance and the thin line between one year and the next, one life and the next. When the goblets are filled, he lifts one.

Arthur stops speaking and takes the other goblet. He seems to be looking for a cue from Merlin.

"Apples always meant endings, in Ealdor," Merlin says. "But also beginnings. You know, summer's over, winter's coming, hard times ahead. And then spring, and things will be good again."

"Yes," Arthur says, uncertainly.

Merlin sighs, a smile growing on his face. He thinks of Morgana at Beltane. "To friends, in good times and hard times, wherever they may be."

Arthur touches his goblet to Merlin's, solemnly. "To friends."

  


 _Yule_

After Midsummer, it's not such a surprise that Camelot keeps Midwinter in some fashion. It's more like Ealdor than not: the Yule log burning in the great fireplace of the hall; the revelry long into the cold night; the gifts between family. The food in Camelot is always more abundant than in Ealdor, so the feast tonight is not as special as it might be.

Merlin sits in a corner of the great hall, turning his parcels over in his hands. He has gifts for Gaius and Gwen, of course, but also for Morgana and Arthur. It's not too late to hide them all and claim to have forgotten. But is it worse to turn up empty-handed than to give a clumsily chosen gift?

Gwen finds him first, grinning and pulling something out of her pocket. It's a cap, motley as a jester's and probably made from all the cast-off bits of yarn Gwen could scavenge. Merlin pulls it on immediately.

"Gwen. It's wonderful. And warm. Thank you." Merlin can only look at her for long moments, so grateful to have her in his life. Then he remembers that one of his parcels is for her. "Here, this one's for you."

Morgana comes up to them while Gwen's opening the wrappings on the pair of candlestick holders Merlin's got for her, heavy and bronze for all that they're small. They're flawed where the molds cracked before the metal cooled — it's that and more batches of burn poultice than Merlin likes to remember making that got them for her. Morgana beams at both of them, taking in candlesticks and hat before demanding that they close their eyes.

Something soft drapes itself over Merlin's neck. He opens his eyes again to see that he and Gwen are both wearing scarves of impossibly fine weave. Gwen's is the pale, delicate green of spring, and Merlin's a rust orange. Morgana's wearing what looks like the same scarf, herself, but in violet. It complements Gwen's perfectly.

Merlin thrusts Morgana's gift at her, feeling awkward. He can never give her anything as nice as the scarves she's picked out for everyone. He's tempted to run off and give Gaius his gift — a new mug, to replace the one Merlin broke — but he stays and waits. She squeals delightedly when the tangle of ribbons comes free of the kerchief he'd tied them in. "Merlin, how lovely," she says. "Thank you."

"Thanks for the scarf," he replies.

Gwen jumps in then, thanking Merlin and Morgana both. Merlin bows out before Gwen gives Morgana her gift. He needs to put Gaius's gift in his quarters for later, and maybe meet up with Arthur.

Later, Arthur finds him. Merlin's only got one bundled present, now, and he's stroking his new scarf one handed as he stares into the fire. It's too hot for a hat, but he can't bear to take off his gift from Gwen.

Arthur's got a scarf on too, indigo-colored and otherwise just like Merlin's. He shoulders Merlin over on the bench and joins him, watching the Yule log crackle and burn in silence. Finally, just as Merlin's readying himself to do it, Arthur drops a wooden box in Merlin's lap.

Merlin jumps, startled, and then sheepishly passes Arthur the cloth-wrapped lump he's been holding. He opens the box and smiles helplessly at the pair of knives within. "Arthur," he says. "You're going to have to teach me to use these."

"Yes, well," Arthur huffs. "I thought that since you insist on putting yourself in danger _all the time_ you might as well have some way of defending yourself. They're weighted for throwing; I'll teach you that in the summer, far away from any other people."

"Thanks," Merlin says, trying to put layers into the word. He looks meaningfully at the bundle Arthur's holding.

Arthur picks at the knot, muttering, "You didn't have to get me anything, Merlin."

Merlin sits quietly, looking into the fire again. He knows Arthur's got the present open when he hears his breath quicken with surprise.

"Just the kings? And how am I supposed to play without the rest of the set?" Arthur's speaking softly, turning the chess pieces over in his hand. He runs a finger along the grain of the darker king, carved from an oak burl, and then lifts the lighter king up to examine the holly wood closely. Someday, Merlin will tell him what they signify. How they symbolize his hopes for Arthur's kingship, one that will wax through the years and never wane, if Merlin has anything to say about it, though it may change. How oak and holly are interconnected, two sides of a single coin.

Tonight, Merlin shrugs and lets his relief and pleasure show on his face. "I guess you'll have to stay on my good side for a while. How many Yules and birthdays does it take to make a chess set?" He makes a show of pondering this until Arthur cuffs him lightly on the head.

"Idiot," Arthur says, and leans gently into Merlin's shoulder. It's almost covered by a pop of the wood when he adds, "Thank you," as he tucks the kings away.

  


 _Imbolc_

The castle is somehow coldest now, in late winter, and even then it's so much better than the truly freezing temperatures in Gwen's drafty house or Merlin's alcove off Gaius's rooms. Some nights Merlin sleeps in the workroom, his alcove too exposed with its external walls and chinked window.

Arthur, whose eyes miss less now than ever before, saw Merlin chafing his hands one morning and simply informed him that he was now required to spend his nights on a pallet in Arthur's rooms. A pallet placed near the fire, and draped with Arthur's second best blanket. Gwen's been moved into Morgana's quarters by the same expedient.

It had been only a chance remark by one of the kitchen girls that told Merlin precisely how far into the winter they were. The days run together lately, endless winter grey. But he'd figured out the date in time, and had been able to ask Gwen if Morgana would mind if he uses the weaving room and its candles for a private Imbolc celebration. Gwen had shaken her head, sure it would be fine, and so Merlin sneaks in there now while Arthur's eating a late dinner.

It's a pleasant surprise when he finds new candles that smell of honey and summer, a low table set with butter and scones, and, seated on the couch, Gwen and Morgana. They are sharing the blanket Gwen wove in the fall, folds of purple and red wrapping their legs.

"Merlin!" Gwen calls, and lifts the edge of the blanket invitingly. Merlin's only too happy to slide under it and reach for a warm scone. They eat in companionable silence, but Merlin's gaze is often on the door.

"Hang on," he says. "I– It's just–"

Morgana sighs, smiling. "Oh, go and get him."

The air of the weaving room is shockingly cold after the coziness of the blanket, and the hallway colder still. Merlin hurries his way back to Arthur's chambers and finds him half-finished with his dinner, staring absently into the fire.

"Where have you been?" Arthur asks curtly.

Merlin takes a deep breath and holds out a hand. "Come on. I'll show you." It's stupid, involving the heir to the throne with the old ways, but Arthur is so much more than just the heir to the throne.

Arthur seems to know that they're talking about more than just Merlin's evening whereabouts. He drops the facade of irritation and takes Merlin's hand, blue eyes wide and sincere, and they slip through the halls together. Merlin can feel laughter bubbling in his chest, remembering the feeling of reckless delight he'd felt at Beltane, the warmth of the unspoken words between them at Yule, as he pulls Arthur into the weaving room.

"We've saved you one scone," Morgana tells Arthur with mock severity, and Merlin does chuckle now as he slides back under the blue stripe of blanket and tucks Arthur under the gold, close against his side.

Arthur eats his scone, taking in the candles and the butter, before asking, "What is all this?"

Morgana chides him. "You can't have thought all the world turned its back on the old ways when your father did. Other families keep the traditions, even those within Camelot." Gwen smiles, a little guiltily, as Morgana says this.

" _This_ family keeps them," Merlin says, surprising himself. "Whether you know it or not, Arthur. But I'd rather you knew it, and joined us."

Arthur nods, solemn and not entirely understanding, Merlin suspects.

"So," Merlin says, starting simply, "Imbolc. We light the candles, for the promise of spring, and the turning of the world, and new beginnings. Morgana will start, and then, if you'd like, you can light the second one."

Merlin sends him to fetch a taper from the stand near the door, and Arthur passes it carefully to Morgana. She lights the first of the beeswax columns; Merlin can see Arthur's sharp eyes watching her, taking in every nuance. Morgana passes the taper to Arthur and he imitates her almost perfectly as he lights the second. She speaks the blessing, her voice soft even in the empty room. Arthur looks at Merlin, one eyebrow quirked almost uncertainly.

Merlin reaches out to wrap a hand over Arthur's hip and pulls him back into the warmth of their blanket. The four of them sit quietly, thighs pressed together, and Merlin thinks of the year to come.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [One Year (The Two Girls Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/403413) by [sophinisba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophinisba/pseuds/sophinisba)




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